


lines

by Authors_Restraint



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, B&B AU, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I wrote this for myself but you guys can read it too, Infidelity, Older Man/Younger Woman, The Author Regrets Nothing, also i might've committed more to fantasizing the smut than writing it so forgive that as well, basically an excuse for me to write the jonsa may/september romance fic i've been craving for months, dany is brooke logan but no aegony in sight, where jon and sansa are ridge forrester and caroline spencer ii from b&b bc i could NOT help myself, why did I write this, you can make anything jonsa if you believe in yourself enough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29408346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authors_Restraint/pseuds/Authors_Restraint
Summary: Jaehaerys "Jon" Targaryen is a world renowned fashion designer from one of the most respected fashion houses in the industry, Targaryen Creations©. He is sorely missed when he suddenly disappears from the scene.Sansa Stark-Hardyng is an up and coming designer who's been working at TC for almost a year, hoping one day to get her chance in the limelight that she's so craved since she was a little girl.She gets her chance when Jon unexpectedly takes her under his wing and becomes her mentor. It's the biggest break Sansa has ever gotten, getting hands on insight from the legend himself.The Winter Collection's deadline is coming up and they need to get a new line up and running so they can meet their orders. During this time, Sansa gets to know Jon and to her horror, an attraction grows.or//:[The Bold and the Beautiful Caridge Au that no one asked for.]
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 64





	lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ode_to_an_inkwell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ode_to_an_inkwell/gifts), [LadyAlice101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAlice101/gifts).



> Happy New Year Darlings!
> 
> Did y'all miss me? I missed you guys. I had to take an unexpected break from writing because I could NOT mister up the energy I'm not lying to tell you guys.
> 
> I wasn't even planning on writing today either and then just bam I cracked out a whole ass chapter right here lmao.
> 
> So if any of you guys follow me on Tumblr you'll know that i've been planning this fic for a while, all the edits for them and whatnot. This fic is based off my favourite couple from the soap opera The Bold and The Beautiful. Yes, THAT bold and the beautiful.
> 
> It loosely follows the story of Ridge and Caroline Spencer II. You don't have to have watched b&b to understand this fic even though I do take inspo from eps 6837 to 6851, 6864 to 6898, and the whole of 6902 all the way to 7102. Yeah it's a lot but the good thing about soap operas is that they drag out the drama unnecessarily so imma cut that shit down.
> 
> So yeah, this fic is also borne of my never ending thirst for silver fox jon who can so absolutely get it.
> 
> To my girls Amy, Maddie, Kindle and Aurora, babies y'all have been waiting so fucking long for this I hope you guys like!
> 
> Enjoy!

"Five minutes to show time! Places everyone! Standby Mya."

The atmosphere is a buzz backstage. Fabric and jewellery is changing from hand to hand and setting powder and glitter is being dusted onto models' cheeks, creating quickly dissipating clouds in the air, churning with the scent of expensive perfume. 

The air is thick and a bit hard to breathe.

Jon has never felt more at ease.

This is what he knows. The excitement, the fanfare, the bit of comforting anxiety . . . They're all familiar feelings to him. He's been doing this for more than two decades.

Sansa, however . . .

She's flitting back and forth, making last minute adjustments to the models who are dressed, lifting and lowering straps where needed, and overall looking ready to jump out of her own skin. 

He would very much like to take her hands and tell her to breathe. Maybe even tuck away the stray wisps of red hair that have escaped her neatly slicked back style, and tell her that everything is going to be fine. Tell her that everyone's going to love her designs, for they're as exceptional as the woman who's designed them.

But he won't.

And he _can't_ , anyway. 

For reasons far too long to list. Most important of them being that she won't appreciate it. Has made it clear herself.

Still, he manages to catch her eye from across the room and offer a small smile. He hopes it brings her a bit of comfort.

* * *

In the world of fashion, lines are everything.

They are what change a camisole into a negligee, an everyday pencil skirt into something Vera Wang would salivate over, and a boring dress into something to be seen on the cover of Vogue. Lines decide what makes it to the runway and what doesn't.

Jon Targaryen's life has been defined by lines.

The literal ones to which he bases his craft on, the titular ones that are responsible for his worldwide fame, and the figurative ones that are the reasons for his very existence.

After all, he's only here because his father had crossed a line with a barely legal Lyanna Snow.

He doesn't like to think of his mother and father's torrid affair much because it makes him uncomfortable. The more than a decade age difference, the power dynamics that he'd become aware of quite early on, the fact that his father was _married_ when he and his mother conceived him . . .

Jon steers clear of that. It also doesn't help that even twenty seven years after her death, that thinking of her still pains him. To the point that he barely mentions her at all. To anyone. But maybe that's something he'd picked up from his father.

If Jon thinks too critically of his parents' relationship -- if one could even call it that -- he'll only resent the man even more. And that would be a bit ridiculous, not to mention pretentious, considering all the man's given him.

His name, his talent, his success . . . It's all thanks to Rhaegar, no matter how much the thought grains on him. He'd never wanted to be grateful to that man for _anything_.

Looking at the mess of crumpled paper around him, all of which contain designs even his ten year old self would be embarrassed by, Jon thinks that the universe has decided to grant him his wish. It's the biggest cosmic joke, to be quite honest.

He looks down at his hand. The graphite pencil wobbles between his fingers and the grip is all wrong. No matter how hard he tries to steady it, it won't stop shaking. _He_ won't stop shaking.

It's as if his hands are disconnected from his brain. It won't do what he wants it to.

He brings the pencil to the paper once again and what is meant to be an A-line, is just an incoherent pattern of scribble. His eyes narrow behind his glasses and he slams the damn thing onto his drawing board in frustration. The pencil snaps in half.

" _Fuck_."

This can't be happening. This can't _possibly_ be happening.

Jon looks from his hands to the mess of poor sketches around him, and feels something within him crack. He takes a breath and rests his head on his fist. Pain flares up between his brows. Great, just what he needs; another migraine.

This would be the third one he's gotten for the week. It's only Tuesday for fuck's sake. Holding one hand to his head, he rummages through the drawer in the desk Egg keeps the aspirin. Along with it, he finds two rolled joints and releases a snort. Typical Egg.

Typical him too. He'd usually help himself to one to get himself back into the proper headspace, but the comedown is a bitch. He's not about to take that risk right now.

Jon pops two pills into his mouth and swallows it dry. He just barely resists gagging. He casts a glance around the office. The floor is littered with his disappointments. 

A scowl set onto his face, he picks up the pages and throws them into his messenger bag. Rhaenys always teased him about his use of it, citing that they were so out of fashion. Its practicality is paying off right now.

He's lifting the strap of the bag onto his shoulder when the door opens. He assumes that it's either Egg or Rhaenys as they're the only two who'd simply walk in without knocking. It _is_ Egg's office after all. Well, it's technically Rhaegar's but his father has been scarce lately and Egg and Rhaenys are the ones who really run things anyway. 

His siblings had had a meeting so he'd been free to utilize the tranquility of the CEO office.

"These are the demos you asked me to bring to you Mr Targ- oh!"

Jon raises an eyebrow.

Sansa Stark holds a folder close to her chest and looks seemingly embarrassed. Jon can't imagine what for. She's a quiet one, that girl. Always keeps her head down. Always does what she's told from what he's seen. Annoyingly polite too. He wonders how far she expects to go in this industry with that demure attitude.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought Aegon was in here."

"He had a meeting. He hasn't come back yet. Is something the matter?"

"Yes. Uh, I mean, no. Nothing's the matter I mean. Aegon, that is, Mr Targaryen wanted me to show him some of my preliminary designs. Well, they're not designs. They're demos."

Jon can't help but be amused by her floundering. The red tinge to her cheeks complements her red hair well, he finds also.

He pushes the thought away, chalking it up to his addled mind.

"Oh. Well, like I said. He's in a meeting. He'll be back soon enough."

Jon would look at it, just to humor her and set her mind at ease -- poor girl looks as if she'll bolt if someone breathes in her direction wrong (and he wonders at that) -- but the aspirin hasn't kicked in yet. And he'd very much like to be in his bed, wallowing in a nice dose of self-pity and alcohol when it does.

"Oh, okay."

"You can leave it on his desk and I'm sure he'll get back to you. I've got to go."

He thinks he's been a bit rude with the way he brushes past her dismissively -- if his mother had seen that, she'd have boxed his ears -- but his nerves are frayed and he _needs_ to get home.

"Oh yes, you're right. Of course."

Jon thinks she's said something more but he's already heading down the hall to the elevator. 

* * *

Her show is a success because of course it is. He knew this would happen. He knew that she had nothing to worry about. She's so talented, his Sansa -- _not yours, not yours, not yours shut the fuck up_. So talented and driven and creative and a whole list of other things that if he were to add on, he'd never finish.

He's also painfully aware that he has no right to be noticing such things.

He keeps to the back and watches as she answers questions from the reporters. Some of them traveled from as far as Lys and Pentos to come see her show. Sansa is smiling widely as she talks to them, and Jon can feel the corners of his lips curl in pride.

His lightweight feelings dim slightly however, as he sees Hardyng sidle up to her, curling an arm around her waist. Now Jon knows he's out of his depth and that Hardyng is well within his rights to hold Sansa so, but it's not the act of the embrace himself that bothers him.

The man is grinning like _he's_ the one who's just had a successful fashion show -- and, well maybe that's fair given the whole deal with your partner's victory is yours as well when it comes to marriage and whatnot, not that Jon would know seeing as his own wife is de -- and Jon frowns when he sees him slyly cut Sansa across. 

It's a bit infuriating. Jon _knows_ Harry wasn't happy about Sansa working the new couture line, even more annoyed that she was doing so under his tutelage. Sansa had accidentally let it slip that her husband doesn't think she's as talented as Jon knows she is. For fuck's sake, the man doesn't know the godsdamned difference between an A-line and a column. 

To see him smile and coo like he's done something annoys Jon greatly. No one did this but Sansa.

She'd take him to task for saying so, insisting that he take credit because they were his ideas -- which they weren't, they were _theirs_ \-- but she's the one who's done all the hard work. 

He looks down at his hands. They're a bit cold and so he rubs them together to create warmth. It still hasn't come back. Not fully. But he's getting better.

He'll get there.

And he'll do it on his own this time.

* * *

The days go by and he gets worse. 

His headaches aren't headaches anymore but jackhammering migraines, he can't get by without loads of coffee laced with gin because he's so exhausted -- sleep doesn't come in the night; all he sees when he closes his eyes is the darkness of the water -- and he's in a foul mood for three quarters of the day.

Oh, and his hands have more or less stopped functioning. 

Mayhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration. He can lift, he can drive, he can put on a suit, he can wash his ass and style his grey curls.

He just can't fucking _draw_.

It's absolutely ridiculous. How the hell is he supposed to be Jon Snow Targaryen, renowned fashion designer known throughout Planetos, if he can't do a goddamn scribble?

He doesn't even have the energy to muster up the spite that this will upset Rhaegar. His whole life's work, the only thing that's kept him sane since Lyanna died, and it's just...not there.

If only he'd stayed his ass in King's Landing and had not flown off to Meereen like the dumb fool he was. Should've minded his own fucking business instead of trying to save Dany from herself yet again.

He wouldn't still be feeling the aftereffects of that ordeal for one, would be able to come up with a fucking dress for another.

Jon pushes his glasses up to his hair and moves to the refreshment section of the CEO office. Egg and Rhae are in another meeting and he's grateful for the alone time. He still hasn't told them what's happened, though he knows he has to.

Rhae suspects, though. She'd cupped his face yesterday and rubbed under his eyes. Then patted his cheeks in faux-motherly disappointment. She's only three years his senior but she makes him feel so young compared to her. Wise woman, his big sister.

Egg suspects too, Jon thinks but he hasn't said anything or made any remarks. That's not how his brother is. They have an understanding. If something is bothering either of them, they'll tell each other. Egg won't push like Rhaenys will.

Jon glances at yet another pile of crumpled failures at the foot of his drawing board, then pours himself a glass of scotch. 

He closes his eyes as he drinks it. He's clearly in his own world because he completely misses the door opening.

He huffs in frustration. Honestly what does it fucking take to get some fucking privacy in his own goddamn family company?

He whirls around, ready to give his intruder hell, but stops when he realises that it's Sansa Stark.

"Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Stark? I gave orders not to be disturbed."

She ducks her head down in embarassment and Jon feels a stab of remorse. He could've worded that a bit more politely, he supposes.

"I was, I was um…," she stumbles over her words, then clears her throat and starts again. "I was wondering if Mr Targaryen, Aegon, had gotten the chance to look at my demos, and if he had any feedback."

Jon raises an eyebrow, then glances at Aegon's desk. Right at the corner sits Sansa's portfolio. The one she'd left there more than five days ago. He watches the disappointment glaze over her face as she realises that it hasn't even been opened yet.

They're in the design business. Any portfolio unopened this long doesn't bode well for its creator. Still Jon feels the need to defend his brother.

"Aegon's been very busy these past few days. A lot of meetings, as I'm sure you've noticed."

She nods, and he can see as she tries to hide the forlorn expression. Something about the way she looks reminds him of when he was fifteen and had finally worked up the courage to show Rhaegar what he was doing. The same disappointment she pretends she isn't feeling is the same he'd felt as he'd watched his father toss his sketchbook to the side without even looking up from what he was doing.

Now Aegon isn't Rhaegar and he's not that cruel -- hell, Aegon isn't cruel at _all_ \-- but the same principle applies. 

Jon doesn't know why but he wants to help her. Maybe it's some sort of sympathy, or maybe he's high as fuck -- he hasn't slept a whole night in a week -- but he does.

"I'll look at them for you."

She blinks at him, eyes wide. They're very, very blue. Almost reminds him of- _nope, don't go there, shut the fuck up._

"You-you _will_?"

He tilts his head and shrugs. "I'm not doing anything right now seeing as you interrupted me. Might as well."

He lifts the portfolio off Egg's desk and sits at his drawing board. He glanced back at Sansa and she's still staring at him. Strange girl, she is.

"Well don't just stand there. Close the door and come over here."

"Oh right!"

She shuts the door then slowly makes her way over to him. Jon is grateful that she makes no mention of the mess at his feet.

First thought on seeing her portfolio is that it's very colorful. Vibrant and playful, not at all like the dark, sophisticated bourgeois bullshit that is TC. He's surprised that he likes it.

He slowly makes his way through and can vaguely hear Sansa rambling on about how she knows it's not perfect and that she's still learning and that she's not sure about it, basically downplaying her talents.

"Stop that," he says without looking up.

"What?"

"Downplaying your talents. You wanna be a designer, you need to own what you do. One hundred percent. Modesty doesn't exist in this business. You want that, go join the Faith."

"You think I'm talented?"

Jon turns his head towards her. She's wringing her hands together. Everything about her screams nervous energy. 

"Yes," he says, matter-of-fact. "You need guidance, and you're still learning yes, but you're talented. Like this," he points to a black and white dress suit. Thin straps, slacks and tasteful neckline. It's interesting but too all over the place.

"What about it?" She moves closer. 

"Too much going on around the top half. You intended this to be for couture, right?"

She nods. Doesn't talk much, does she?

"In couture less is more. All of this here is distracting and takes away from the rest of it. You want sleek, elegant. Classic. I see what you're trying to convey but you put too much."

He can see that she understands. She goes to reach for one of his pencils and he can't help but be surprised.

"Oh, forgive me! May I?"

Jon doesn't let anyone sit in his chair. It's his space, this room is his sanctuary and his supplies are his babies. He doesn't _share_. And yet he gets up and let's Sansa take a seat because he can't help but want to see what she does.

She takes the eraser and removes all the contrasting lines, and angles the charcoal pencil. Immediately he knows she's doing it wrong.

"No."

She tries again.

"Nope."

She does it one more time. 

He makes a disappointing _tsk_ sound because he is that much of an asshole.

Sansa lets out a sigh of frustration, and levels a look of annoyance at him. He's sort of amused to be honest. 

"I don't know what it is you mean and you just saying no to my every movement doesn't help."

He simply tilts his head and says nothing. She wants to be a designer, she needs to follow her own instincts. Can't have him tell her what to do.

She tries a few more times and he can see that she's really frustrated. 

"Can you _please_ just show me?"

Despite himself, Jon freezes. She hasn't asked about the paper on the floor, why he looks like hell, or why he's stressed -- though, why would she; it's none of her business -- and yet he feels like she can _see_ it. Feels like she _knows_.

"It's your design. It wouldn't be right for me to-"

"But you're a _designer_. Please?"

He says no. He's pretty sure that he says no. And yet the next thing he knows he's standing over her shoulder, his hand on hers -- her hands are tiny, funny that; delicate and dwarfed by his own -- and they're criss-crossing lines on the top of the jumpsuit. 

His hands are shaking and panic is racing through every fiber of his being, and yet he watches in amazement as Sansa's demo becomes a goddamn prototype.

He's not aware of the passage of time but the next thing he knows, he's staring at... _that_.

"Oh my gods," Sansa breathes. "Oh my gods, it's beautiful."

Jon slowly lifts his shaking hand off of hers. He did that. _They_ just did that. Blood is roaring in his ears and every nerve feels heightened to the nth degree.

What the fuck just happened?

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out @jonskory.tumblr.com


End file.
